


to the core

by cursedwurm



Series: regarding jonah magnus and his associates [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Ambiguous Relationships, Arson, Blood and Injury, Bugs & Insects, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, Grave Robbers, Hate Sex, Jealousy, Jonah Magnus Week, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Murder, Past Relationship(s), Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Jonathan Fanshawe, Trans Male Character, Trypophobia, unconventional love confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24775621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cursedwurm/pseuds/cursedwurm
Summary: Jonah's eyes remained trained on Jonathan even after he'd finished speaking, holding his glass of whiskey but not drinking any of it. He wore a faint smile, as if his story was nothing more than an amusing anecdote, and nodded to himself slowly as he took it in."I am sorry you had to go through that, Jonathan," he said, though it was clear that he didn't particularly mean it, "You were right to come to me.""Does it sound supernatural to you?""Absolutely," Jonah mused, finally taking another sip of his drink, "The Crawling Rot, as Robert calls it. Manifests itself in the form of illness, filth and diseases - I'm surprised you haven't encountered it earlier, considering your line of work."--In 1822, Jonathan Fanshawe comes to Jonah Magnus in search of answers, and Jonah is more than happy to help him find them.Written with the prompt "Medical Examination" for Jonathan Fanshawe as part of Jonah Magnus Week 2020
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus (mentioned), Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Series: regarding jonah magnus and his associates [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794436
Comments: 13
Kudos: 20
Collections: Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	1. inside and out

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote using the prompt 'Medical Examination' for Jonathan Fanshawe. This is quite a heavy one, so here's a full list of warnings!:
> 
> \- blood and gore/injury detail/internal organs  
> \- medical procedures (mostly on corpses)  
> \- murder (+death in general)  
> \- trypophobia  
> \- bugs (specifically maggots)  
> \- also, masculine terms (cock, dick) are used for jonah's genitals. i am not transmasc, but i have spoken to and had advice from transmasc friends/mutuals in writing this!
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Please leave comments and kudos if you do!! <3

“Getting desperate, are we?” 

Jonah grinned as Jonathan Fanshawe sat in the chair opposite his desk, nursing a strong glass of whiskey in his shaking hands that he’d already downed half of. The doctor narrowed his eyes, his voice surprisingly calm compared to the rest of him as he glared back over the desk with a sneer.

“Apparently so, Magnus,” he retorted, “You know that I would not be asking for your help unless I had no-one else to turn to.”

It didn’t take omniscience to understand Jonathan’s bitterness towards Jonah; in fact, it didn’t take much more than simple observation skills and the most basic knowledge of their history to figure it out. Jonah was more than aware of it and found it rather amusing how the doctor - generally a man of composure and professionalism - still harboured a strong grudge against him for abandoning what  _ he  _ had interpreted as a romantic relationship, after meeting a wealthier (and admittedly, slightly younger) man in the form of Barnabas Bennett. It was so incredibly petty, yet Jonah quite enjoyed it, taking great pleasure in how Jonathan regarded him with disdain, hatred and total adoration every time the two of them met. These days, they rarely met for anything outside of professional talks regarding any encounters the doctor had with Smirke’s Fourteen, but as of late these encounters had become fewer and fewer and for the most part, communication was limited almost entirely to letter-writing. So naturally, when  _ something _ had informed him that Fanshawe was on his way to see him, his interest had been piqued and he cleared his schedule for the rest of the day in order to make time for him. Now here he was, sitting opposite Jonah with his hair looking more than in need of a trim as it fell around his dark eyes in messy waves. Despite being just shy of thirty-two, his face was marred with lines of stress and worry which, in his defence, did nothing to take away from the rest of his handsome features. 

“Oh, I am fully aware of that, Jonathan,” Jonah gave him a smile, voice sickly sweet as he began to pour himself a glass of whiskey, “I’m just surprised you came to see me in person. After all, you rarely grace me with your presence these days. It’s rather a shame, don’t you think?”

“No more of a shame than you running off with the first man willing to open his legs and wallet to you,” the doctor took a sip of his whiskey, making no attempt to disguise the bitterness in his tone, “Besides, you and I are both busy men. Even if I wanted to see you I would not have the time to do so.”

“Then why are you here?”

“ _ Don’t _ make me repeat myself, Jonah.”

Jonah laughed at this, swirling his own drink around in his glass before taking a small sip, the alcohol burning the back of his throat as he swallowed the golden liquid. “Yes, yes, you’re  _ desperate _ ,” he waved his hand dismissively, “But you should know better than to burst into my office demanding my help without providing any information on what you require help  _ with. _ ”

It was Jonathan’s turn to laugh then, a dry, forced chuckle that carried in it far more resentment than humour. “What’s wrong?” he mused, “Have you suddenly gained a sense of morality since we last spoke? Are there suddenly limits to what you will and won’t do?”

“I have always had my limits, my dear,” Jonah answered, simply, “It just so happens that graverobbing isn’t one of them.”

“Then what are your limits, Jonah? Assault? Murder?  _ Commitment? _ ”

Jonah narrowed his eyes, his smirk turning to a grim line as he placed his glass on the table with a loud  _ thud _ , making the doctor grip his own so tightly as to make his knuckles turn white. “If all you have come here for is to complain about our relationship then I suggest you leave.” He spoke firmly, voice edged with anger as he made direct eye contact with the man sat opposite him. “I am more than happy to help you, Jonathan, but I will only do so when you tell me what you need help with. Do I make myself clear?”

“Abundantly so.”

Jonah nodded, satisfied. He picked up his glass and sipped his whiskey, putting his feet up on his desk and relaxing into his seat. “Now, Jonathan,” he said, “Tell me what happened. From the start.”

\--   
  
It had been a fairly normal day to start off with. Doctor Jonathan Fanshawe had seen several patients with varying ailments, but none so dramatic that they couldn’t easily be cured. A few had a persistent fever so typical of the winter months, one had an injury that had not been properly cleaned and became infected and another had come in complaining of an earache which was solved within a matter of minutes by simply cleaning out the ear canal. By no means an interesting day, but an easy one nonetheless. That was, at least, until his final patient of the day: a man named George Wormwood who, for the last week or so, had a pretty nasty cough. Naturally, Jonathan had been expecting a cold or perhaps the flu - which certainly wouldn’t have been surprising considering the time of year - but the moment Mr Wormwood had entered his office it was clear that this was not the case.

He had been thin and pale, as if he hadn’t eaten for days, and his eyes had been sunken and ringed with circles so dark they were almost unnatural. He had used a wooden cane to walk, his legs so shaky they looked as if they could give out at any second, and his hair had clung to his face, which shone with a layer of sweat. All the time, Mr Wormwood had coughed into a handkerchief which he kept pressed to his face, not even pulling it away to speak.

“Doctor, please,” he had groaned, voice muffled by his handkerchief, “I need your hel-  _ Eugh! _ ” He’d cut himself with a loud cough, spluttering and gasping for air between each guttural sound that came directly from his chest. Jonathan, more than a little alarmed, pulled up a chair for him to sit in, carefully guiding him towards it as he continued to hack and splutter into his handkerchief. He hadn’t, of course, let this alarm show, offering his own handkerchief (and making a mental note to not take it back) before writing down his initial observations.

_ ‘Patient appears thin, tired, and physically weak. Coughing is near-constant.’ _

“Mr Wormwood,” he’d said, raising his voice to be heard over the man’s coughs, “I understand you may not be able to say much right now, but I shall have to ask you some questions about this. Will that be alright?” Mr Wormwood's reply came in the form of a quick nod as he inhaled deeply before coughing again. “Alright, Mr Wormwood- could you tell me how long this has been going on for? When this cough started exactly?”

Mr Wormwood had nodded again, able to speak for just a brief moment. “It started three-” he had started, but stopped before he could finish as another series of coughs racked through his body, sounding no less painful than the previous ones had. Jonathan had sighed.

“Three months?” he’d asked. 

The patient had shaken his head.

“Weeks?”

The same again.

“... _ Days _ ?”

A nod, followed by a splutter and a wheeze for air as tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes. Jonathan had dipped his quill in the pot of ink before adding to his notes.

_ ‘Patient has felt unwell for three days, struggles to talk through coughing and is in immense pain.’ _

He’d frowned for a moment, lips silently forming the words on the piece of paper in front of him before scrawling down another word.

_ ‘TB?’ _

“Mr Wormwood, have you brought up any blood since this cough began?”

Mr Wormwood had nodded, pulling his handkerchief away from his mouth and holding it out for Jonathan to see.

The word  _ ‘blood’ _ had quickly been added to his notes and  _ ‘TB’ _ underlined.

So far, everything had pointed towards a quintessential case of tuberculosis: the coughing, the pain, the apparent tiredness and thinness, and especially the blood in the handkerchief. The only issue had been how quickly the illness had progressed: as far as Jonathan had been aware, tuberculosis was characterised by a cough lasting three  _ weeks  _ or more, not days. And yet, somehow, Mr Wormwood had been in the late stages of it in less than seventy-two hours, most likely beyond saving. It had been baffling to say the least, and Jonathan watched as he coughed and rasped into the bloody handkerchief, considering the best way to go about telling his patient to start bidding his family farewell.

Only this time, the coughing had not stopped. Jonathan had observed in confusion and, admittedly, intrigue as Mr Wormwood had reached for his desk, clutching it desperately as he’d doubled over in pain. The handkerchief had become redder and redder, blood soaking through it and running down the patient’s arms and dripping onto the floor beneath him. Jonathan had tried to help him to return to his chair, but his knees had given up completely and he crumbled to the ground like a house of cards being knocked over, still hacking and choking and coughing up droplets of thick red blood that had started to form a puddle on the floor of Jonathan’s office. He was done for, Jonathan had been sure of it, and he silently wondered how on Earth he would be able to clean his workspace ready for tomorrow’s patients.

And then, something had hit the floor beneath Mr Wormwood. Something small and pale and  _ alive  _ amongst the red of his blood. Something that  _ squirmed _ . Jonathan had recoiled in horror as his patient curled into a ball on the ground, watching as he coughed up another, then another, then another, until there had been more white and  _ wriggling  _ on the floor than blood. 

Maggots. Tens, maybe even hundreds of writhing, squirming maggots had hit the floor as Mr Wormwood convulsed and choked on his own blood. His body had twitched violently as his coughs became desperate screams of pain, louder and hoarser until he could scream no more and lay still amongst the wriggling mass of maggots underneath him. 

Jonathan had stared for a few brief moments, confusion and revulsion and fear all brimming inside him in a nauseating concoction that made his stomach churn. Then, he’d thrown up, the sight of the maggots embedded in his brain even when he’d looked away to heave up the contents of his stomach onto the floor beneath him. When he’d looked back up, the creatures had still been alive, and in a moment of complete terror and impulsiveness, he took the heaviest book from his shelf and brought it down as hard as he could onto the squirming pool beneath him. The squelch had been almost unbearable, but he’d ignored the wave of nausea that hit him as he continued to squash the maggots, tears streaming down his face as he dropped to his knees and slammed the book down over and over and over until the only living thing in the room had been him.

Jonathan had stayed knelt on the floor in complete shock, able only to sob as the book fell from his hands and landed with a sick  _ splat  _ in the blood of his patient. The stench of death had hung heavy in the air and though he had seen plenty of corpses before, somehow the sight of a fresh one - one that had been alive not fifteen minutes prior - made him feel an overwhelming sense of disgust that he’d never experienced before. 

He hadn’t been sure how much time had passed when he eventually left his office. He’d locked the door behind him, made his way as quickly as possible to his apartment and had spent at least an hour scrubbing at his hands as if washing them hard enough would also wash the memory of the maggots from his mind. The clothes he’d been wearing that day had quickly been burned, and Jonathan had stared at the flames as they consumed the fabric in the dingy back alley behind his Edinburgh apartment. He’d struggled to sleep that night, the image of the maggots hitting the bloody floor of his office burned into the back of his eyelids every time he did so much as blink. By the time his eyes had finally fallen closed, the first rays of the morning sun had been creeping through his bedroom window.

The next day, Jonathan had not gone to work. He hadn’t been able to face the stinking corpse of George Wormwood, much less the creatures that lay dead on the floor around him. He’d instead found himself making his way to the centre of the city, entering a building he had not stepped foot inside in over a month to see a man he had sworn to never make physical contact with again. 

He’d been ashamed, but his fear had far outweighed that. So, with a glass of whiskey in hand, he’d begun recounting the previous day's events.

\--

Jonah's eyes remained trained on Jonathan even after he'd finished speaking, holding his glass of whiskey but not drinking any of it. He wore a faint smile, as if his story was nothing more than an amusing anecdote, and nodded to himself slowly as he took it in.

"I am sorry you had to go through that, Jonathan," he said, though it was clear that he didn't particularly mean it, "You were right to come to me."

"Does it sound supernatural to you?"

"Absolutely," Jonah mused, finally taking another sip of his drink, " _ The Crawling Rot,  _ as Robert calls it. Manifests itself in the form of illness, filth and diseases - I'm surprised you haven't encountered it earlier, considering your line of work."

Jonathan narrowed his eyes, downing the rest of his drink and putting the glass firmly on the desk in front of him. Now, with nothing to occupy them, he wrung his hands in his lap, rubbing them together until the skin started to turn red. "Are you planning to do anything about it, Jonah?" he asked, "Because right now there is a  _ corpse in my office _ and if nothing is done I fear there may be more."

"A valid concern," Jonah said, "But unfortunately I cannot say for certain until I have more information."

" _ You bastard, I _ -"

"For example," he interrupted the doctor, apparently not noticing he'd even spoken, "Where did these maggots come from? Were they a result of tuberculosis? Were they passed on? Did something lay its eggs inside Mr Wormwood or did the maggots simply manifest themselves there? Your recount is certainly detailed, but I fear it is lacking in any of the appropriate research I need to follow up on it."

Sighing, Jonathan rolled his eyes. If he were a different man whose feelings for Jonah Magnus were even slightly different, he would most likely have left there and then, perhaps getting in one more insult man before he slammed the door shut behind him. He, however, was not a different man and Jonah knew that, despite all his anger and contempt towards him, the doctor's feelings were just enough that he could only begrudgingly accept his offer.

"Fine," he said, " _ With your help _ , I will do some more research. I don't feel comfortable going further into this without your assistance, Jonah. Besides, it will do you some good to get out of this office for a while."

Jonah chuckled at this, finishing his drink with a dangerous, almost mischievous, glint in his eye. "Excellent," he smiled, "Let's start with an autopsy, shall we?"

\--

It had been just under twenty-four hours since George Wormwood had died. Rigor Mortis had fully set in now, his head and shoulders a sickly shade of blue-green. His corpse stunk, cooled down to match the temperature of the room he lay in. Jonah knew that Jonathan could feel his eyes watching him, boring into him as he set the body down on the autopsy table and began to take out his tools. He didn't look away as the scalpel pushed into the cold flesh against the resistance of the tensed muscle, stopping only for a second to compose himself before cutting further into his patient's corpse. His notes from the previous day sat on the table behind him, the paper splattered with now-dried blood, and the doctor took a quick look at them before pushing his blade further into Mr Wormwood’s chest. Jonah watched carefully as he worked in silence, making his way through the muscle and past the sternum, paying no mind to the viscera or the horrid squelching noises the rotting organs made as the doctor meticulously cut through them as he made his way towards the lungs.

Jonah always enjoyed watching Doctor Fanshawe work. His brow would furrow and his bottom lip would get caught under his teeth as his focus became transfixed solely on whatever biological abnormality he was investigating. Of course, Jonah was never present when Jonah worked with his live specimens - they sought trust and privacy just as much as they sought the cure to whatever illness or injury they were undergoing. He was, however, often the sole member of Jonathan’s audience when he worked on his cadavers, and found himself thoroughly bewitched by how he made his way so methodically through the rotting corpses that Jonah so often helped him carry from the graveyard. His workspace - a rented-out basement under an empty house on an equally empty street - was not particularly large, though it was comfortable enough for the two of them (three, if you counted the dead body). Jonah was more than happy to sit on the cheap sofa opposite the table where the doctor worked, watching the autopsy like it was a show being performed in his own personal theatre. Plus, it always helped that Jonathan Fanshawe was by no means unattractive; something about the way the candlelight hit his face and emphasised the furrow of his brow and the sharp lines of his jaw made Jonah all the more willing to observe his… scientific endeavours.

Jonah was pulled out of his thought when he met Jonathan’s gaze as the doctor looked up from his work to him, his lips drawn out into a frown. “Jonah, he said, “I think you should take a look at this.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jonah got to his feet and approached the table, peering over the corpse. Its lungs were in full view, two large hunks of greying meat. One of them had the top carefully removed to reveal what should have been more flesh, etched with minuscule, zigzagging tubes, but was instead a mass of tiny, maggot-sized holes, clustered in sections across the lung. Certainly disturbing, he thought to himself, but hardly surprising considering everything the doctor had already told him. He shrugged, looking from the body back up to Jonathan.

“That is more or less what I had expected,” he stated. Jonathan sighed.

“There’s more,” he said, using his forceps to cut the meat bridging a group of holes together, pulling it apart to allow Jonah a closer look inside, “Here.” Buried amongst the greying flesh was a small mound of yellow-white sacs, ovular in shape and each one no bigger than a quarter of an inch in diameter. Jonathan carefully lifted them out of the hole, placing them atop his work table where he could inspect them more clearly.

“More maggots?” Jonah asked. The doctor shook his head.

“Eggs,” he replied, “Unhatched ones. They must have been laid there and once the others hatched… well…” Jonathan’s voice trailed off and his face paled slightly, his grip on his forceps tightening just enough for it to be noticeable. There was silence for a few moments as he made his way to a shelf and picked up an empty jar, bringing it back to the table to put the eggs inside it. He screwed the lid back on tightly, then placed that jar inside a second, bigger one and did the same. “That should starve them of air,” he explained quickly, “Even if they do hatch, they should die fairly soon after.”

Jonah simply nodded. “Are there any more?” he asked.

“No, I have already checked,” Jonathan began to wipe down his tools with a damp cloth, visibly relaxing as he put them and the jar on a shelf out of the way. He was quiet for a second, pursing his lips in apparent thought. Jonah watched him as he drummed his fingers against the table, hazel eyes narrowed in contemplation. Eventually, he spoke, breaking the silence with a matter-of-fact statement. “We should burn it,” he said, “Just in case whatever this is is still infectious.”

Jonah agreed, and once the sun had gone down completely the two of them lifted George Wormwood’s corpse from the work-table in the centre of the room and began hauling it into the empty alleyway a few doors down, grateful for the unlit streetlamps overhead. The body was in the process of decaying, the blue-green tinge of its head and shoulders already reaching its fingertips. It lit easily, and the two men watched as the corpse burned brightly in the darkness of the alleyway, the fire eating away at the flesh until it had nothing left to consume and all that was left of Jonathan’s patient was a blackened husk that was no longer recognisably human. As the flames ate their fill and slowly died out, Jonah turned to the doctor with a chuckle.

“Just like old times,” he said. Jonathan sighed in annoyance, though the smile that came to his lips was undeniable.

“Yes,” he replied, “I suppose it is.”

\--

Two days later, Jonah arrived at his office to see Jonathan Fanshawe sitting outside it, apparently waiting for him to arrive. He got to his feet the moment he spotted him approaching, taking a piece of paper from his pocket and clutching it tightly in his hands.

“Jonah!” he said, “Jonah you  _ must  _ look at this!”

Jonah opened the door to his office so the doctor could enter, offering to take his coat. Jonathan refused his offer, instead thrusting the note into his hand with an expression that was somewhere between anger and relief. “I spent yesterday speaking to doctors around the Edinburgh area,” he explained before Jonah had even asked him to, “Trying to figure out exactly where those bloody maggots came from.”

“And…?”

“And several of them said they’d seen at least one patient with similar symptoms: quintessential tuberculosis that somehow progressed to a terminal stage in a matter of days,” he pointed to the words scrawled messily across the note as Jonah picked it up, pushing his glasses up his nose as he read through it, “I’m fully aware that it breaks patient confidentiality, but this is a list of said patients.”

Jonah let out a sigh at this, folding up the note and gently pushing it back into Jonathan’s hands. “You wouldn’t be telling me this unless your situation was completely dire, Jonathan,” he observed, “What do you need my help with now?”

“Grave-robbing,” the doctor replied, “You said it was within the bound of your limits, and I know you’re just as curious about this as I am.”

Jonah hated to admit that the doctor was right. He didn’t let it show, however, letting out a soft chuckle of amusement and taking the piece of paper back. He slid it into the pocket of his waistcoat, sitting down on his desk in front of Jonathan. “My goodness, this brings me back,” he mused, “You and me, going to remove some poor innocent soul from their resting place.”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “Jonah,  _ don’t- _ ” he started, but Jonah cut him off, ignoring him entirely.

“I remember it like it was yesterday, Jonathan,” he continued, “Holding that lamp for you as you hauled corpses from their coffins… helping you carry them back to your little basement work-space… Pulling the stinking things apart with our bare hands because you couldn’t afford the correct tools…” Jonah laughed at the memory and watched as the doctor approached him, his expression darkening. “Is something the matter?” he asked, “It isn’t like you are ashamed of it.”

“Do you know that, Jonah?”

“Yes, I do.”

Jonathan was directly in front of him now, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in anger as he looked down at Jonah, still somehow small in his presence despite being the taller of the two. His lips were drawn into a sneer and anger dripped from his voice, coating his words as he spat out, “You are one of the most disagreeable men I have ever had the bad fortune to meet.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow. “And yet you return to me time and time again,” he replied curtly, “Both in the written and the physical form. I am more than happy to lend you my assistance, but you must be aware that  _ insults  _ will not get you anywhere.”

“You seem perfectly fine with insulting me.”

“I was simply  _ reminiscing _ , Jonathan. Is there something wrong with that?”

Jonah grinned, watching as the doctor’s gaze flicked from his eyes to his lips, his tongue darting out momentarily to wet his own. “Is that what you call it, Magnus?” he asked.

“It’s one word for it, yes.” 

Jonathan leaned forward ever so slightly, the space between them reduced to mere inches as Jonah tilted his head to the side, smirking as he felt the doctor’s breath brush gently against his face. There had been a tension between them since the moment Jonathan had arrived in his office earlier that week, a tension that only grew as they’d investigated and subsequently burned George Wormwood’s body and was now so thick that he could practically taste it in the air between them - and it was  _ delicious. _

And then Jonathan was pulling away, his lips still forming an angry frown despite the light dusting of red that covered his cheeks. “I’ll meet you outside the Institute at sundown,” he said firmly, as if ignoring the strange moment of strained almost-intimacy between them altogether, “And I still stand by what I said there, Jonah.”

Jonah just laughed. “Of course you do, Jonathan,” he drawled, “Which is why you’re trusting me as your accomplice once again.”

Jonathan Fanshawe did not have an answer to that, only managing to roll his eyes as he left the office, not bothering to close the door on his way out. Jonah watched him leave with a smile, knowing full-well that if he had really meant what he’d said, he would not return to the institute that evening.

\--

Jonathan returned to the institute that evening, the moment the sky began to turn inky. Jonah purposefully kept him waiting longer than necessary, so that when he finally left his office the doctor's expression had darkened and was nearing one of anger. The two of them didn't say much on the way to the cemetery, speaking only as Jonathan broke the lock on the cast iron gates, to ensure that no one had spotted them breaking in.

Once they were inside, Jonah lit a handheld oil lamp and followed Jonathan through the graveyard to a large rectangle of exposed dirt with just a small wooden headstone inserted into it. It looked small and sad compared to the others, the name etched into it barely visible in the dim glow of the lantern. It was fairly fresh, the doctor explained, and the wooden headstone acted as a stand-in for a real one. The body in the ground beneath it belonged to one Frances Heap, who'd seen her doctor not two weeks prior complaining of a persistent, bloody cough. The doctor had suspected tuberculosis, of course, but she had died before anything could be done about it, just three days later.

Jonathan slung his coat over the branches of a nearby tree, then rolled up his sleeves and pushed his shovel into Frances Heap's grave. He squinted in the lamplight as he began digging a hole, fingers gripping the handle of his spade as he pushed deeper into the soil. Jonah watched him work just as he had two nights prior; the doctor was just as meticulous digging graves as he was digging through human flesh, removing the earth in a way that would not disturb the ground around the grave. His brow was furrowed in his usual unwavering focus, the flickering lamp-light illuminating his features in a way the Jonah could certainly appreciate. Despite the time of year, his face and arms were glistening with sweat and his shirt began to cling to his body as he got closer and closer to the coffin. 

"Jonathan?" he said, leaning back against a headstone with his fingers wrapped around the lamp's handle. The doctor didn't look up, humming in acknowledgement and prompting him to continue, "Do you trust me?"

At this, Jonathan stopped what he was doing, the shovel freezing halfway through the dirt as he looked up at Jonah. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, then he bit his lip as if he was trying to stop himself from answering. He eventually seemed to give in, letting out a sigh as he pressed his boot against the spade to shove it further into the dirt. "I… I suppose I do," he replied, sounding almost defeated, "I cannot say that I feel like I  _ should _ trust you, Jonah - you keep far too many secrets for that. But in matters such as these, you are one of the few men I know whose moral compass is… strange enough to assist me."

Jonah couldn't help but laugh, a soft chuckle that sounded all too loud in the quiet of the cemetery. "My moral compass is no stranger than your own," he said, "Besides, you enjoy this, don't you?"

Once again, Jonathan froze, clenching his jaw as if fighting the question itself. Then, just as he had before, he relaxed and nodded. "I think so," he admitted, "It's just… There's a rush to it, Jonah. There's this sick enjoyment I get from it, from getting away with it. Of course, I feel bad for these people, for their families- but for the act itself, I have not once felt guilty. So, yes, I… I guess I do enjoy it." Jonathan sighed as he met Jonah's gaze, his face relaxed and jaw unclenched. His grip on his shovel loosened as he spoke and there was a look in his eyes that Jonah couldn't quite describe, somewhere between exasperation and longing. "How do you do that, Jonah?" he asked.

"Do what, my dear doctor?"

"Make me… talk like that. Reveal what I am secretly thinking."

Jonah watched as he pushed his shovel into the dirt as it hit the top of the coffin with a thud. He shrugged, sliding off the headstone where he perched, holding out the lantern over the hole the doctor had dug so he could see clearly. "I can't say I know for certain," he answered, "Though it is certainly a useful skill to have, wouldn't you agree?"

Jonathan rolled his eyes at this, taking a piece of metal wire from his pocket and using it to pick the flimsy lock on the coffin. "I guess so," he frowned, "But you can hardly call it  _ fair _ , Jonah. You get to keep your secrets while prying into everyone else's."

"Would you like to know?"

"Know what?"

"My secrets?"

The doctor groaned as he opened the wooden lid of the coffin, seemingly unconcerned by the rotting carcass inside it. "How do I know you'll be honest with me?" he asked, picking the corpse up and holding it out for Jonah to take.

"You don't," Jonah put the lantern on the ground and took the body from him, dumping it haphazardly in the wheelbarrow they'd brought with them, "But if I remember correctly, you said that you trusted me."

Silence. Then-

"I suppose I did."

Jonathan sighed heavily through his nose as he closed the coffin and clicked the lock on it shut, letting Jonah grab his wrists as he pulled him out of the grave. He brushed himself down, dirt caked under his nails, before beginning the task of shovelling the earth back into the hole to cover up the now-empty coffin. Jonah didn't say anything to him, simply continuing to observe as the doctor refilled the hole, making sure to avoid disturbing the surrounding soil and patting the dirt down flat. Within twenty minutes of exiting the hole, it looked just as it had when they'd arrived - save, of course, for the corpse lying in the wheelbarrow next to it.

It was only then that Jonathan spoke, throwing his coat over the body to hide it as he began to push the wheelbarrow out of the cemetery. "Jonah?"

"Yes?"

"If I ask you a question, do you promise to answer honestly?"

Jonah clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the lantern swaying in his hand. "I don't make promises if I'm not sure if I'll keep them," he replied, "You should know that by now." He looked up at Jonathan, who rolled his eyes, keeping his focus on the cemetery gates ahead of them.

"It was a simple question, Jonah," he said, "And I expect a simple answer. Will you be honest with me - yes or no?"

"... No."

The doctor chuckled, his features softening in the warm glow of the lamp-light. "I see," he smiled, "Thank you for your honesty, Jonah."

This took Jonah off-guard, and he opened his mouth to speak before closing it when he realised he had nothing to say in response. He felt his face flush slightly from embarrassment, grateful that the light from the lamp was slowly starting to die down. There was more silence after that, as Jonah watched wordlessly as Jonathan pushed the wheelbarrow out of the cemetery and along the pathway that would take them back to the urban area of Edinburgh and to the basement where he would dissect the cadaver, most likely in search of more maggot-holes and eggs. The silence continued when they arrived, not a word exchanged between them as Jonah helped the doctor carry the corpse from the wheelbarrow to the work-table in the basement, washing off his hands with soapy water before taking his usual seat on the cheap sofa opposite and enjoying the show.


	2. under the skin

Just like George Wormwood's, Frances Heap's lungs were covered in groups of maggot-sized holes, dotted across the decaying muscle like splatters of ink on a page. Jonah's eyes remained transfixed on Jonathan as he once again lifted a cluster of unhatched eggs from the holes and sealed them away in two jars, one inside the other. Not twenty minutes later, the body was burning in the dingy alleyway a few doors down, and the two men watched the flames dance and consume what was left of Ms Heap's rotting flesh. It was only then that the silence between them was broken, this time by Jonathan as he watched the body burning dimmer and dimmer.

"Jonah," he said, "What do you get out of this?"

The question took Jonah by surprise, and he pulled his gaze from the flames to the man beside him, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "Pardon?" he said.

"What do you get out of this?" Jonathan repeated himself, still not looking down at him, "I know it isn't my company, and somehow I doubt you enjoy having to help me sneak dead bodies into a basement. Yet something tells me that even if I hadn't requested your help, you would have insisted on giving it to me anyway."

The question was certainly a loaded one, and Jonah found himself pursing his lips in thought as he considered his answer carefully. If he wanted to be brief, he could have simply said that he liked having answers, liked knowing things - this, however, was almost entirely inaccurate. Jonah didn't want information, didn't want answers, didn't want to learn. Perhaps those had been his motives at some point, but he had long outgrown that, moving onto bigger, far greater things. He didn't know exactly how to describe why he did what he did, but the closest word to what drove him was... _hunger._ He was hungry, starving, insatiably so. He did not simply want to find things out, to dedicate his life to academics; he wanted to know _everything_ , to consume truth and knowledge like his very life depended on it. He wanted to see things no-one else saw, to know things no-one else could possibly ever know. Power was, after all, found in knowledge - and that power was oh-so appetising to Jonah Magnus. 

There was also the matter of his fears, his near-constant dread of The End. He was terrified of the nothingness, of nothing he did mattering. It made him sick just to think about what, if anything, was waiting for him on the other side. Thinking about it made him feel sick, so he turned his attention back to the question at hand.

He watched the doctor closely as the fire dwindled, the smell of charred flesh and singed hair polluting the air around them. "It's curiosity, I suppose," he finally replied, "I need to know things, to watch them happen with my own eyes. You must understand that receiving a letter about something and seeing it in person are two very different experiences."

"Is that so?" Jonathan smiled, "Are you sure there is absolutely nothing else to it?"

"Why, do you think there is?"

The doctor shrugged, finally turning his head to make eye contact with Jonah. His hazel eyes twinkled in the dying light of the fire, glinting with a handsome excitement that he possessed far more often than he probably liked to admit. "I don't know, Jonah," he said, "But I certainly would like to." He chuckled to himself, and at that moment something told Jonah that if Jonathan Fanshawe got enough of a taste for knowing, for _seeing_ , he would feel the same ever-present gnawing hunger that he did.

The fire burned out soon after, reduced to a pile of glowing embers in the alleyway as Jonathan poured water over it to put it out entirely. It was then that Jonah spoke again, continuing their conversation from earlier. "You really think I don't enjoy your company?"

Jonathan blinked in surprise. "Pardon?"

"You said so earlier," Jonah continued, "That you didn't think I would join you _just_ to spend time with you- which I don't. But it isn't as if I don't appreciate your presence. We're not as different as you think, you know."

He smiled as the doctor frowned in confusion, stamping out a piece of bone, still glowing orange, under the heavy sole of his boot. "What on Earth are you trying to say, Jonah?" he asked, annoyance creeping into his voice. Jonah just sighed, extending his arm for him to take. 

"Would you be so kind as to escort me home?" he said, "We can discuss this on the way."

The first part of the journey back to Jonah's home - a fairly large house just outside of the central city - was done in total silence. Every so often Jonathan looked as if he were about to say or ask something, but each time he changed his mind, turning back around to focus on the street in front of him and instead tightening his grip on Jonah's arm, almost possessive in nature. It wasn't until the two of them had turned the corner on the final street of their journey that Jonah spoke again, just as Jonathan had opened his mouth to do the same.

"I enjoy your company, Jonathan," he said simply.

"Mhm," Jonathan hummed in response, "Is that why you opened your legs the moment Barnabas Bennett opened his wallet?"

Jonah couldn't help himself from rolling his eyes with a sigh; it seemed that Jonathan's bitterness and jealousy had not dissipated over time - though hopefully, that meant the same could be said for his romantic feelings towards him, which was something he (for some reason) did not take issue with. "In Barnabas' defence," he said, "Most of that money isn't his - it's Mordechai's. And I opened my legs to him years before I met Barnabas." He let out a chuckle, but Jonathan's expression remained the same.

"You're one of the most insolent men I've ever met," he told him, "Completely insufferable."

"And yet your romantic feelings for me remain."

"In a far smaller capacity than they used to, I assure you."

The two of them stopped outside Jonah's house, the crisp winter air making the doctor shiver as he pulled his coat tighter around his body. It was still a while until morning and other than themselves the street was entirely empty. Jonah looked at Jonathan as they approached the front door and their eyes met for what could have been moments or hours. The stench of the cadaver was long gone, now masked by the warm, bitter smell of the ashes and embers that clung to both of their clothes. Despite the time of night, the doctor looked more awake than he had done all week, and Jonah wondered if it had been stealing and cutting up a body or their conversation just now that rejuvenated him.

And then Jonathan leaned in, slowly but surely, and Jonah was more than happy to lean in back, moving a hand to rest on his hip as a smirk came to his lips.

"My word, Jonathan," he muttered, "Whatever happened to me being _insolent_ and _insufferable_?"

Jonathan didn't answer his question, cupping his face in his hands and whispering a soft, " _I hate you, Jonah"_ before closing the gap between them and pressing his lips roughly against Jonah's own.

The kiss was not gentle or sweet, yet the flurry of emotions behind it made Jonah's head spin. Jonathan's lips were dry and chapped but became wet in a matter of seconds as Jonah kissed back, letting out a soft hum of satisfaction and wrapping his arms around his waist, holding the doctor's body tightly against his own. It was fast and heated, a sloppy, emotional mess of lips and teeth and tongue and gasps of pleasure as Jonah scrambled to unlock the door and pull the both of them inside. He let Jonathan take the lead, responding with a groan as he shoved him against the door the moment it was closed, pinning his hands either side of his head as he bit his bottom lip and pushed his tongue into his mouth. There was a certain familiarity to it; the way Jonathan's breath tickled his face as he tightened his grip on his wrists made him whine softly, a reaction that made his partner push his body flush against his. His tongue tasted faintly of soil and blood, his hands cold from the chill of the winter air outside, and Jonah savoured every second of it, sucking on his tongue as it slid over his own. He wasn't sure how long they were there for, roughly making out against the door of the dingy Edinburgh apartment, but by the time the doctor pulled away he was red-faced and breathless, a thin line of saliva connected his kiss-swollen and spit-slicked lips to Jonah's own.

" _Jonathan, honey-"_ Jonah breathed, biting his bottom lip as his wrists were freed and his partner began undoing his jacket and pressing rough, biting kisses along his jaw.

" _Don't_ call me that," he hissed in reply, "This doesn't mean anything." He bit down on his earlobe and Jonah gasped, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and tangling his fingers in his hair.

"You and I both - _ahh! -_ both know that isn't true." Jonah moaned softly as a leg slid between his thighs. His jacket hit the floor, quickly followed by his waistcoat and cravat, and he found himself grinding against Jonathan's thigh as it pressed against his crotch.

"And what of it, Jonah?" Jonathan muttered against his now-exposed neck as he undid the buttons up his shirt and pressed his lips to his jugular, "It isn't like you _care_. This is probably just part of your bloody research-" 

"You love me," Jonah interrupted, voice low and breathy as the doctor's teeth pressed into his neck, "You just don't want to admit it."

At this Jonathan paused, lips hovering over his neck as he hesitated in the darkness of his apartment's hallway. Then, "That's true, but…"

"... But?"

"It doesn't matter to you, does it?"

Jonah sighed, slowly running his fingers through the doctor's hair. "Don't self-project, honey," he whispered softly, his words somewhere between a taunt and a prayer, "This is nothing more than a quick fuck to you, Jonathan. One night to take it all out on me, to fool yourself that we love each-other just as much as you once thought we did. Then we'll go back to our professional relationship and never speak of tonight. That's what you think of this, isn't it?"

"I… yes..." Jonathan sighed heavily, moving a hand to cup his face, his features illuminated by the streetlamps outside. "I suppose it is."

Jonah smirked. "That _is_ a shame," he said, "Because it could be so much more. _We_ could be so much more, honey. You and I are the same, deep down. We're men of learning, of discovery. You've always preferred dissecting corpses to treating your patients - don't deny it. You're a smart man, Jonathan, and if you could open your eyes and _see,_ you would be unstoppable."

The doctor stared at him for a moment, his lips parted and brows furrowed. When he eventually spoke, it was soft but firm, and he pushed his thigh harder against his crotch. "Shut up, Jonah," he muttered, before biting down on Jonah's neck, hard enough to make him cry out and tug on a fistful of his brown hair.

After that it was a matter of minutes before Jonathan wrapped his hands around his thighs and lifted him up with little-to-no effort, letting him wrap his legs around his waist as he carried him towards his bedroom. His lips barely left his neck, and gripping the fabric of his shirt Jonah realised just how little he was wearing compared to the doctor, his own shirt sliding off his shoulders as Jonathan set him down on the bed and knelt between his legs. "You're wearing an awful lot, Dr Fanshawe," he breathed, "Do you need some help getting it off?"

Jonathan rolled his eyes and kissed him in response, making no effort to push his hands away as he began undressing him, tracing the shape of his muscles (built from years of work and hauling bodies out of graves) and the curve of his chest as his clothes joined Jonah's on the floor. He was an attractive man, Jonah thought, pulling away to drink in his exposed body like a fine wine. His skin was somehow still tanned from the summer, a warm brown that seemed almost golden in the light of the oil lamp on his bedside. His dark hair fell in messy curls around his face, dishevelled in a way that Jonah found all-too attractive; that same dark hair thinly covered his arms and legs, and marked a path from his navel down to his hips, disappearing under the white fabric of his drawers. He was not a small man either - usually standing a good four inches taller than Jonah - and his body was broad and toned from his _'work'_ , the smooth curve of his hips and thighs filling out his underwear nicely.

Hooking his fingers under the waistband of his drawers, Jonah pulled him closer, pressing his lips to his jaw and whispering against the skin as he marked it with his teeth. "This brings back memories," he muttered, "Undressing each-other in my bedroom late at night." 

Jonathan hummed softly at his words, biting his lips as his own hands scrambled to take off Jonah's trousers. "Don't push your luck, Magnus," he replied, though his words lacked any real malice or hostility and were instead edged with a teasing lilt that made Jonah whine into his neck. 

"Or what?" he asked, "You'll gag me?"

"No-" Jonah's trousers hit the floor, the garters around his shins and the stockings they held up soon joining them. "-You'd enjoy that far too much."

"I suppose you'll have to shut me up some other way, Dr Fanshawe," he grinned, "I'm sure a capable man such as yourself can manage that."

Jonathan's eyes narrowed in annoyance, and he cupped Jonah's chin in his hand, stroking his thumb along his bottom lip before sliding it into his mouth. Jonah let out a soft hum of satisfaction, sucking on his thumb as the doctor loosened his drawers and pulled them to his knees, kicking them off the side of the bed. Jonathan's other hand traced the line of his hip bone, still cold against his skin, before sliding it between his thighs and brushed his fingers over his cock. Jonah moaned around his thumb, closing his eyes as the doctor's familiar calloused fingertips stroked his lips, slick with his arousal. Even now, after over a year without physical contact, Jonathan knew exactly how to touch him, how to rub his reddened dick and angle his fingers inside him to make him moan and squirm underneath him. His thumb slipped out of his mouth, tracing his tongue and trailing spit down his chin before capturing Jonah's mouth in his own, letting him whine against his lips as he worked a third finger inside him. His digits pumped into him, curling against a spot inside him that made him gasp and arch his back, his free hand cupping his chest and his thumb circling around his perked nipple, still wet with his spit.

"Oh, _God_ , Jonathan…" his voice came out high and breathy, "Are you - _mhmm! -_ are you quite done teasing me, _honey_?"

Jonathan paused the movement of his fingers, still knuckle-deep inside of him. "If I had known that you'd get bratty with me, I wouldn't have brought you into my bedroom," he said, his words harsh but his voice edged with lust, "If you want me to fuck you, you'll shut up and let me work."

"And if I don't?"

Jonathan didn't grace this with an answer, pushing his fingers deeper into him, the wet sounds of Jonah's arousal drowned out by the moan it elicited from his throat, a carnal cry of pleasure as he felt the burning tension in the pit of his stomach being pulled tighter and tighter. He gasped the doctor's name, rolling his hips into his touch as he fucked into him with his fingers, hard and fast in such a way that Jonah could only grip fistfuls of his hair and moan pathetically into his ear.

And then he was coming, white-hot bliss jolting through his body as he released over Jonathan's hand. He cried out desperately, the doctor's fingers still fucking into him as his orgasm tore through him. His thigh quivered and he bit his lip to muffle his moans, back arching slightly off the mattress as he chased his climax, sensitive to every thrust of Jonathan's fingers into his hole. 

When he finally opened his eyes, Jonathan kissed him, slow and languid; Jonah couldn't do much, save for sucking on his bottom lip, still breathless from his orgasm. The two of them stared at each-other as they broke their kiss, breathing against each-other's mouths as Jonathan's hair tickled Jonah's face. There was a hot, intense silence, filled with pent-up emotions and unspoken fantasies that didn't need to be said out loud. Then the silence was broken, as Jonah gave him a hazy, fucked-out grin, leaning forward to kiss him on the lips.

"I thought you said you were going to fuck me?" he asked. The doctor rolled his eyes.

"I will," he answered, "I'm just letting you get your breath back."

"What a gentleman, Jonah drawled, and Jonathan could only laugh, rolling his eyes as he kissed him back.

\--

They didn't talk about the sex when Jonah woke up with Jonathan in his bed the next morning. They didn't mention it as the doctor left for work, nor did they bring it up a few days later as they snuck back into the cemetery after sundown.

Matthias Beaumont had seen a doctor roughly two weeks ago for what he'd suspected to be tuberculosis. His body now lay in a coffin, hastily buried in a cheap grave that Jonathan made quick work of digging up, handing his corpse to Jonah for him to dump in the wheelbarrow before shovelling the dirt back over the now-empty grave. Just like George Wormwood and Frances Heap, Beaumont's lungs had been burrowed into, the decaying flesh speckled with maggot-sized holes, a few of which contained the same yellow-white egg sacs as the ones that sat in jars on Jonathan's shelf. The eggs joined the others and the corpse was burned in the alleyway, and the two men watched, standing closer to each-other than they had on their previous nights together.

Jonah returned with Jonathan to the basement where he'd had worked, helping him clean his tools and discard the original egg sacs that they had removed from George Wormwood's lungs. They didn't talk about the other night as the last of gore was cleaned from Jonathan's hands, nor was it brought up when the two of them stumbled onto the cheap couch in the corner of the basement with their lips locked together and hands pulling at the fastenings of each-other's clothes.

They didn't talk about it two days later after dissecting the rotting body of Harriet Thomas, or two days after that when, completely separate to their current investigation, Jonathan Fanshawe fucked him on the mahogany desk in his office, fully aware that he had a 'financial meeting' with Mordechai Lukas later that day. It wasn't brought up when the doctor came over his mouth three times after removing the eggs from the lungs of Joseph King, or when Jonah sobbed in pleasure as he rode the bronze cock Jonathan fastened to his hips with a leather harness. 

Jonah could tell Jonathan _wanted_ to bring it up. Every so often he'd breathe in deeply, preparing himself for a conversation they both knew they'd never have, before deciding against it and going back to digging his third grave of the week. Jonah knew the doctor was confused: by his own feelings, by Jonah's feelings, by the anger and hatred and utter adoration that bubbled up inside of him whenever they kissed. It was certainly intriguing to witness, though a part of him wanted nothing more than to force Jonathan to just open his eyes and _see_ everything he could, to _know_ what he thought was unknowable.

And then, on a Thursday evening in early January, the doctor entered his office without an appointment, placing a small, leather-bound journal on his desk and opening it to the upcoming week.

"Dr Fanshawe," he said, "To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you at a time like this."

The doctor looked up at him, water dripping from his hair and soaking through his shirt from the rain outside. "I have a patient," he explained, hazel eyes shining with excitement, "Next Monday. Apparently they've had a persistent, bloody cough, and I-"

"You what, Jonathan?" Jonah gave a small, amused smile, "Thought you'd _investigate_?"

"Well, yes-"

"And how do you plan to do that? Dissecting them?"

Jonathan opened his mouth to reply, then closed it as his cheeks darkened slightly - in embarrassment, perhaps. He sat down in the chair opposite Jonah, burying his face in his hands. "I… don't know," he admitted, "It isn't like I haven't…" His voice trailed off and Jonah raised an eyebrow.

"Haven't what? Killed someone?"

Jonathan seemed to freeze, recoiling as if something was trying to pull the answer from his lips. It was just for a brief moment, but Jonah recognised the glint of fear in his eyes before it disappeared and the man in front of him spoke. "Yes," he answered, "But that was different Jonah. That wasn't for _research_ -"

"It was in cold blood, then?"

" _No!_ " Jonathan raised his voice and narrowed his eyes, then took a moment to compose himself before continuing, "No, it was… out of pity. I've had patients whose conditions have been in such a stage that they had no hopes of survival. Their only choices were a slow and painful death at the hands of their illness, or a quick and painless one at the hands of their doctor."

Jonah nodded slowly. "I understand," he said, "But in all fairness, Jonathan, from my understanding of the situation, these people don't survive the Crawling Rot. They'll die regardless of what you do. Might as well make it quick, no?"

Jonathan's eyes widened, at first in horror and then in realisation. " _Jonah_ ," he said, "You have to understand that I don't do that unless my patient agrees to it."

"I doubt they'll be in a position to disagree if they're coughing up maggots, Jonathan," Jonah retorted, "And if this condition _is_ contagious, surely eradicating it is the best way forward?" He smiled warmly, and the doctor seemed to relax as he stood up from his desk and approached him cupping his face in his hands.

"I… I suppose so."

"Besides, honey, don't you want to find out exactly what this is? Exactly what's eating these poor souls?" Jonah pressed a kiss to Jonathan's forehead and he leaned into his touch. "Don't you want to _know_?" 

"Of course I do, Jonah," the doctor let out a sigh, "But unlike some, I'm not willing to give up my morals just for the sake of _knowing_ things." He frowned, pointedly glaring up at him with narrowed eyes. Then, without giving Jonah another glance, he picked up the diary and placed it back in the inner pocket of his coat and got to his feet. "If you have a better suggestion, you're more than welcome to swing by my office on Monday," he told him, "If you do not, then do not contact me again." 

He didn't give time for Jonah to reply, leaving his office and slamming the door shut behind him.

\--

On Monday morning, at exactly eleven minutes past nine, Jonah knocked on the door to Jonathan Fanshawe's office. The doctor opened his door and greeted him politely; he was apparently halfway through an appointment but let him in all the same, introducing him as a young doctor-in-training who would be observing his appointments that day. Jonah sat down on a wooden chair in the corner of the room, watching Jonathan as he worked, taking his patient's temperature and prescribing them plenty of warmth and rest- a rather simple cure, but it wasn't as if he had the medical expertise to call it an inappropriate one.

After that patient had left, Jonah got up from his seat and peered over Jonathan's desk, looking down at his schedule for the day. One of the appointments in his diary - the one he had been shown the previous week - had been circled and underlined, with all subsequent patients' names crossed out. He raised an eyebrow. "Albert Kennedy," he read from the diary, "I suppose that's our man?"

The doctor nodded. "It is," he said, "I trust you've had a better idea since we last spoke?"

"Perhaps," Jonah replied with a smile, and Jonathan frowned, apparently not happy with his answer.

" _Perhaps?_ " he repeated, clenching his jaw in annoyance as he filed away the previous patient's notes, "It was a straight-forward question, Jonah-"

"With a rather complex answer," Jonah interrupted him, "I may not be an expert on medicine, but when it comes to knowledge of the supernatural, I am your superior. I am going to have to ask you to trust me on this one. Please, Jonathan." He spoke quietly but firmly, resting his hand atop Jonathan's in reassurance. He felt the doctor's muscles relaxing and watched as he unclenched his jaw, closing his eyes and sighing heavily through his nostrils.

"Fine," he answered, "I… I trust you, Jonah. Don't make me regret this."

Jonah pressed a kiss to his cheek, a gentle gesture of reassurance that felt a little too natural for his liking. "I won't," he whispered, paused, then- "Thank you, honey."

The next appointment passed slowly and uneventfully. Jonah sat in his chair in the corner, playing the role of the dedicated student as he watched his mentor work, methodically checking his patient's temperature, pulse and weight and taking notes on her condition. She seemed perfectly fine to Jonah, save for the heavy bags under her eyes, but Jonathan knew what he was doing, prescribing her with a medicine she could purchase from a local apothecary that he found to be particularly trustworthy. After that, Jonathan took a short break for lunch, which turned into a longer break to press his lips to Jonah's neck and a hand between his legs - a break which they, naturally, did not talk about.

When the clock in Jonathan's office hit exactly three minutes past two, the third and final patient of the day knocked on the door, his coughs already audible from outside. Jonah watched the doctor closely, unable to help the smile that came to his face as he opened the door and let the patient in. 

“Mr Kennedy?” Jonathan asked with a too-kind smile. The man nodded and he gestured to the empty chair beside his desk, “Please, take a seat. I’m Dr Fanshawe, and this is my assistant Jonah, he’ll be… helping me out today. Is that alright with you?”

Mr Kennedy nodded as he coughed, unable to speak, and Jonah watched his blood spray from his lips onto the handkerchief that he held over them. 

“Good,” the doctor continued, “Now, I have seen a few people with a similar ailment to yours and I understand that this is extremely painful. So I’m going to ask you yes or no questions and all you have to do is nod your head. Is that okay?”

Mr Kennedy nodded, still hacking up blood, and Jonah watched, eyes transfixed on the doomed man.

“From my understanding, this is a fairly recent illness, yes?”

A nod. Coughing. More blood, dripping from the handkerchief onto Mr Kennedy’s shirt.

“Less than a week, would you say?”

The same again. Crimson stained Mr Kennedy’s mouth and Jonah couldn’t tell where his lips ended and his chin began.

“And other than the blood, have you noticed anything… strange about this cough? A certain kind of pain-”

“What’s this?” Jonah cut him off then, looking through a small chest of drawers beside the doctor’s desk. He heard Jonathan sigh, not having to look up to know he was rolling his eyes. 

“That’s a stethoscope,” he said, looking at the wooden tube in Jonah’s hand, “It’s a fairly new instrument, for listening to heartbeats, mostly.” Jonah nodded, then approached Mr Kennedy, ignoring his coughs and chokes and cries of pain.

“May I?” he asked, and Jonathan nodded.

Jonah squatted in front of Mr Kennedy, pressing one end of the stethoscope to his ear and resting the other on his chest, roughly where the lungs would be. At first, there was nothing, save for hacking and wheezing as blood dripped from the patient onto his clothes, but as he moved it around, he heard… _something_ completely unnatural, coming from beyond Mr Kennedy’s chest.

Buzzing.

Jonah held his breath as he listened, closing his eyes and focussing his attention on the sound as it became clearer and clearer from within the patient.

_Buzz. Buzz._

“Jonathan, listen to this,” he said, holding out the stethoscope for the doctor to take. He did, and knelt down beside him and listened to the stethoscope as he pressed it to the patient’s chest. Jonah watched as his eyes widened and he looked up at him, at first in horror and then in fear. His grip on the stethoscope tightened and Mr Kennedy choked into his handkerchief, tears mixing with blood as they streamed down his face. 

When the doctor finally stood up, his expression was unreadable, a concoction of fear and confusion and disgust filling his eyes as he looked from his patient to Jonah, then to his desk where he kept his notes from his autopsies over the last month. “Jonah,” he said, slowly, as if he were figuring out each syllable as it left his mouth, “May I have a word with you?”

“Of course Dr Fanshawe,” Jonah said, still watching Mr Kennedy gasp for air between coughs, wheezing through his apparently blocked throat as Jonathan pulled him to the corner of his office. 

“What is your plan, Jonah?” the doctor asked him, his voice hushed but urgent. Jonah raised an eyebrow.

“You’re the doctor here,” he replied, “Considering my lack of my medical expertise, I figured you should take control of the situation. I am, after all, your assistant.” He smirked, and Jonathan let out a groan.

“You’re also enjoying this far too much.” The two of them looked at Mr Kennedy as he cried out something that sounded like a strained _‘help me’_ , before turning back to each-other. “I… fear he is beyond saving.”

Jonah felt his heart race, unable to stop himself from chuckling at Jonathan’s answer. “What do you plan to do about it, doctor?” he whispered, “Send him away and let him die in agony? Ensuring that he spreads it to others?” Jonathan didn’t answer that, but Jonah recognised the glint in his eye as one of realisation, the fear dissipating into something else, something _dangerous._ He was determined. He wanted answers. He was finally opening his eyes, finally _seeing,_ and Jonah was more than happy to take the stethoscope from his hand and replace it with the garter dagger he kept sheathed in his waistcoat.

“Jonah, I-”

“I believe in you, Jonathan,” he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips, “I always have.”

“Don’t lie to me, Jonah,” Jonathan told him, undoing his cravat and handing it over, “And do me a favour and use this to muffle his screams.”

Mr Kennedy was not strong - whatever was crawling inside of him had made sure of that. Jonah held him in place from behind, stuffing the cravat in his bloody mouth, paying no mind to the way he thrashed and clawed at his arms as the doctor brought the knife - freshly sharpened that morning - to his throat and slashed it open. Blood sprayed across Jonathan’s face and clothes, the metallic stench of blood filling the room as the patient screamed into his doctor’s cravat. The hands clawing at Jonah’s arms fell slack but his legs continued to kick, and Jonathan brought the knife across his neck a second time, as hard and as deep as he could once, then twice, until the blood spurting from the wound slowed to a trickle and the body became limp in Jonah’s arms. The glint of determination in Jonathan’s eyes was still present as he lay the corpse on the floor, ignoring the blood as he worked his way into the lungs, so methodically that it was almost humorous compared to how he’d slashed open his patient’s neck not five minutes prior.

The second the knife pushed through the flesh of Albert Kennedy’s right lung, the buzzing from earlier returned, muffled beneath the gore of his organs but gradually growing louder. Jonah watched as Jonathan meticulously cut the lung (bearing only a few of the holes that Jonah had grown so accustomed to seeing) open, pushing the dripping hunks of meat aside as the buzzing grew in clarity and-

Jonathan reached forward and clenched his fist, and the buzzing ceased. As he opened his palm, Jonah saw the squashed, broken body of a common house fly, a dark stain against the red that soaked the doctor’s hand.

There was silence, save for the dripping of blood as it fell from Jonathan’s face and hands into the pool of red around the body at his knees. Then, the knife clattered from his hand and he gasped, bottom lip quivering as tears welled up in his eyes. Jonah watched in silence as the doctor sobbed, letting him bury his bloodied face in his shoulder and grip the fabric of his waistcoat in his hands. He wasn’t sure how long they were there for, but when Jonathan pulled away he cupped his face firmly in his hands taking no notice of the blood as it smeared over both of their skin. 

“I have matches and lamp oil in my bag,” he told him quickly, “A lot of it.”

“ _Jonah-”_

“I brought a cigar to leave on the scene, to make it look like an accident. Leave the knife here too, we’ll escape through the back alleys and make our way to the institute that way.”

Jonathan nodded, tears still streaming down his face. They kissed, hot and disgusting on the floor beside their patient, tasting blood on each-other’s mouths, before getting to work pouring lamp oil across the room, and leaving a cigar on the desk, just in case questions were asked.

It was only once they’d escaped, watching the smoke rising in the distance from the safety of Jonah’s office, that they finally discussed it.

“Jonah?” Jonathan said, putting his cup of tea down on the window-sill, “What are we?”

Jonah didn’t turn to look at him, still watching the doctor’s office burn in the distance. “Does it matter that much to you?” he asked in response, and for once Jonathan seemed to answer entirely of his own will.

“Not really,” he said, “But a man is allowed to be curious, isn’t he?”

“Mhm.”

“...I hate you.” Jonathan stated, and Jonah laughed, placing his own tea on the window-sill next to his. 

“No, you don’t,” he said, “You never have.”

“And I probably never will,” Jonathan admitted, “Unfortunately.” He let out a long sigh of defeat. “Do you? Hate me, that is?”

“...No.”

“Hmm.”

“Quite the opposite, in fact.”

The smoke continued to rise as the sun began to set, staining the sky an all-too-familiar crimson red; Jonathan’s hand slid into Jonah’s, squeezing his fingers tightly and stroking his knuckles with his thumb. Neither of them spoke, but neither of them needed to, the silence between them saying far more than words could ever tell them. The two of them watched as the sun set, standing hand in hand as what they had done burnt away in the fire. Only the knowledge of it was left behind, a secret to die with the two men who watched the fire burn from the safety of the Magnus Institute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some hcs for jonathan fanshawe included in this:  
> \- he's of mediterranean descent (hence tan skin and darker hair)  
> \- he was aligned to the eye but managed to avoid becoming an avatar when he severed his contact with Jonah in 1830  
> \- he does euthanasia (despite it being considered murder at the time) for patients beyond hope.  
> \- he and Jonah had a sort-of relationship before he met Barnabas Bennett and is kinda jealous.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave kudos/comments if u enjoyed and hmu on tumblr @snapdraqons if u wanna yell about Jonah +pals


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